


Pain Relief

by Reiya_Wakayama



Series: Pain Relief 'verse [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Episode: s01e04 Magic Bullet, Hurt!Derek, Magic!Stiles, healer!stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-25
Updated: 2014-01-25
Packaged: 2018-01-09 22:55:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1151783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reiya_Wakayama/pseuds/Reiya_Wakayama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He learned all he knows from his mother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pain Relief

**Author's Note:**

> So I wanted to write a fic with magical Stiles healing all the hurt Supernatural creatures in Beacon Hills so here it is. Stole the plot from “Magic Bullet.”

It starts off with his mom. That much he remembers from his childhood before she died. He remembers many a day of riding along with her in the car on her way to a client’s house or wherever they asked to meet up. He’d sit next to her and watch her hands move, firm yet gentle, slowly bringing relief from anyone’s pain. She was a healer of the supernatural side of life and there were many that sought her out for help.

She taught him everything he knows on those trips, explaining it in a way his young mind could understand and remember. He remembers the first time he helped her on a trip. A little sprite had hurt her wing and he had healed it at his mother’s nod, little brows scrunched up in concentration, little hand trying to do just like he remembered her doing.

She left him a book as well, that she had started to write when she first found out she was pregnant and had finished just before she died. It’s like he has a little piece of her with him. It’s no surprise when he ends up doing the same as her.

He’s twenty one, with a degree in business, when he opens his little shop. It’s mainly an apothecary. Why just help one side of life. His little remedies, copied just like his mother wrote down, can help many who can’t find relief in more modern medicine.

It’s the second half of his business that gets the most action. He has a little apartment/attic/loft thing above his shop that he stays in which means he can keep his shop open pretty late. It’s the late night visit that is most common.

Most supernatural creatures, the wilder ones at least, aren’t very technologically savvy and can’t call him over. Most end up on his door step. He has a ward on his door step specifically to alert him to just such an occurrence.

He’s twenty two when he meets Alan Deaton. He’s like Stiles, a helper of the supernatural and local vet. He doesn’t have the healing gift like Stiles but he makes do with his remedies and potions. They spend a lot of time trading recipes and arguing the properties of different ingredients.

~*~

At twenty three, Stiles has filled out from his lanky teen years. Gone are the days of the buzz cut and plaid everything, though he still has a few plaid shirts left over. Frowning at his reflection in the mirror, Stiles sighs and goes back to grinding up the king’s oak acorns he’d just gotten in.

Suddenly, a small alarm bell in his head goes off and he sets down his mortar and pestle. Wiping his hands hastily, Stiles runs down the skinny stairs that lead down into his shop. Emerging from his store room, Stiles runs to the side door.

It opens into a back alley, shielded from pedestrian traffic by buildings and a brick wall that shields a dumpster from everyone else. Most of the creatures that come to him end up here to keep from being seen.

Opening the door, Stiles pokes his head out and looks around. When he doesn’t see anyone immediately, he steps out further. A growl starts up to his right where the dumpster butts up to the wall of his building. There’s no light by it and everything is in shadows.

He can see the four sets of glowing eyes staring at him. Three are golden and one is a bright crimson red. Stiles gulps and takes a quick step back. He’s not had any dealing with the local werewolf pack yet, but he’s heard the stories, mostly from Deaton so that he is in the loop about Beacon Hills’ history. Hunters set fire to the house, killing most of the pack, leaving only three siblings and an uncle. The two oldest siblings had been twin Alphas, brother and sister. From what Deaton had told him, the sisters had moved to New York leaving the brother to keep watch of the pack’s territory and rebuild. He hadn’t said much about the uncle.

The eyes come forward into the light let out from the open door behind him. The Alpha has his arms thrown over two of his Betas, blonds, one male and one female. The third, a darker skin male, leads the ways, keeping an eye on their surroundings.

Stiles takes one look at the Alpha’s pale, sweating face and firms his resolve. “This way,” Stiles says, stepping back and giving them enough room to slip through. Glancing around, Stiles follows, shutting the door and locking it behind him. No need to tempt fate and have someone barg in while he’s got four agitated werewolves in his shop.

Quickly walking into the back room, he finds them milling about, uncertain of what to do. “Up on the table,” Stiles says, motioning towards the cloth covered wooden table he has set up back here. Normally, he uses it as a preparation table for his herbs and remedies. Sometimes, he needs it for other uses, such as this.

They level the Alpha up on the table and Stiles steps closer, ignoring the growls sent his way. They can’t help instinct that says to protect pack mates and hide the injured away. The Alpha is white under his olive complexion, scruff standing out starkly.

Stiles finds the source of his sickness in a nasty wound in his right arm. Ugly black lines run out from the infected wound, leading up under his shirt sleeve. Growling in frustration, Stiles steps away and grabs a pair of scissors, coming back and quickly cutting away the cloth.

The black veins lead further up his arm and into his shoulder, steadily inching closer to his heart. “You left it off too long. I’m not sure if I can stop the spread to his heart,” Stiles says softly, frowning. “Wolfsbane from a bullet?” Stiles asks them and the dark skinned Beta nods. “You wouldn’t happen to have one of the bullets would you?” He shakes his head. “Figures,” Stiles mutters but turns back to the Alpha. “What’s his name?” he asks absently, reaching hands out.

“Derek,” the blonde female Beta says.

“Derek,” Stiles says, tapping the Alpha cheek softly. “Stay with me Derek, no dying on my table please.” The Alpha groans but doesn’t open his eyes which have shut. Stiles reaches out, sending his magic out to where his hand hovers over Derek’s heart. Drawing a circle over his chest, a glowing line follows until it closes and disappears. “There, that will slow it for now. Now the tricky part,” Stiles says and reaches a hand out for the wounded arm.

Gritting his teeth, Stiles digs his fingers into the flesh, no time to get his instruments and sterilize them, though he doubts werewolves can get sick from unsterile tools, or fingers for that matter. Derek howls, arching off the table and the three wolves growls, advancing as their Alpha writhes on the table.

“Enough of that. I’m just trying to get the bullet out,” Stiles says sharply and they stop at the command in his voice. Digging in further, he feels metal against the pad of his finger and quickly pries it out, cursing as it slips and he has to grab it again. He drops it to the table with a bloody clink.

Ignoring the hovering pack, Stiles closes his eyes and concentrates on the poison running through Derek’s veins. This is something he figured out he could do on his own. He’s not sure if his mom ever had this ability.

The poison gives off a faint aura particular to the specific species of wolfsbane used. He feels a corresponding aura to his right, just behind him. Letting go of Derek’s arm, Stiles goes over to his shelf of wolfsbane. Needless to say, he has a lot of varieties. Stiles’ hand hovers over a small jar labeled ‘Nordic Blue Monkshood.’

“Figures,” Stiles says coldly. Only an expert hunter would use one of the rarer types of wolfsbane. It would make finding an antidote even harder. This little bottle was actually a gift from Deaton since it was so hard to find the plant. He wonders if Deaton knew something like this might happen. That was a question for later contemplation.

Walking back over Stiles opens the jar and pours a little of it out on the table. “Anyone got a lighter?” Stiles asks, eyes flicking to Derek’s chest where the thin film of light over the skin is almost gone. He’s not got much time left.

The darker Beta reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small lighter. Nodding in thanks, Stiles flicks it on and lights the small pile until only ash is left, a little bit of smoke wafting up. Looking back up, he eyes the three Betas. “Grab that bucket please,” Stiles says and the blonde male does as asked. “You’ll need to hold him down for this part,” Stiles says and they crowd around, the blonde setting the bucket down beside Stiles.

“Ready?” he asks and they nod, bracing themselves. Picking up the ash, Stiles jams it down into the wound as far as he can before Derek howls again and tries to buck off of the table. Stiles jumps back as his claws come out in reaction to the pain.

The three Betas struggle to hold him down as the ash takes effect and the black veins start to fade. Suddenly, Derek shoots up, shedding his Betas and Stiles scrambles to get the bucket to him in time before Derek pucks black blood that smells horrible. “And that is why you should always have a bucket,” Stiles mutters to himself.

Setting it aside for disposal later, he steps back and lets the Betas crowd their Alpha as he sags with exhaustion. Stiles busies himself with washing his hands of blood and wolfsbane ash and putting the jar back where it belongs.

Someone clears their throat behind him and Stiles turns, leaning back against the sink and crosses his arms staring at the Alpha who is now sitting up on the table, legs thrown over the edge. “Thank you,” he says hoarsely.

“No problem, though you might want to tell your Betas not to leave bringing you here until the last possible moment,” Stiles says with a shrug.

“What do I owe you?” Derek asks, frowning at Stiles’ words but nodding all the same. Stiles has a feeling he frowns a lot.

“First time is on the house. After that, the price depends on the situation and I’m willing to haggle as well as trade services,” Stiles says with a small smile. “Hopefully, you won’t make a routine of this.”

Derek shakes his head no and slides off of the table, catching the edge as his knees buckle slightly before he grits his teeth and straightens. “Thank you again,” Derek says.

Stiles nods and see them out. He waits until they turn the corner before going back inside, locking the door and sliding down the door to have his slight panic attack as he crashes from the adrenalin of having four werewolves, one of which was a hurt Alpha in his small back room. Anything could have happened and he could have been disemboweled or something equally as gory if he hadn’t been lucky.

Sighing, Stiles runs his fingers over his face and peeks through them to see the bloody cloth and the spent bullet resting on top of it. Frowning, he gets up and collects it and the cloth. He throws the cloth into the sink and runs cold water over it, keeping the blood from setting.

Cleaning the bullet off, he slips it into his pocket. He wants to study it and see if he can figure out which hunter has been hunting in his town. He hadn’t heard of any hunter being in town, but then he’s been busy the last few days.

Deciding to put a phone call in tomorrow to his dad, now a retired sheriff living on the other side of town, Stiles sets about neatening his backroom. The bucket of black blood he’ll have to burn tomorrow. Stuff like that just can’t be dumped down the drain.

Finished, Stiles turns the light off and heads back upstairs. Hopefully, he won’t have any more callers tonight.

**End.**


End file.
